


Dinner's Ready

by yekaterina



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 1960s New York, F/F, unsatisfied russian housewife katya coquettish avon saleslady trixie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-08-10
Packaged: 2019-02-22 13:45:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13168191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yekaterina/pseuds/yekaterina
Summary: Trixie says more as she holds bottles, trinkets, hairbrushes, and jewelry. Katya catches but bits and pieces of her presentation as the drunkenness begins to sink in fully, Trixie'severythinglulling her into serenity. The saleswoman alternates between the other products and the perfumes, spritzing up Katya's arm with different scents everytime that she nods dumbly.She spritzes her neck once they run out of space. Katya wobbles back in forth in her seat, listening to the radio in the kitchen playing the same kind of jazz from this morning. With her eyes closed, she feels like she's dancing.“Tell me how it smells, Trixie.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [koscheibessmertny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/koscheibessmertny/gifts).



> this is the unsatisfied housewife (re: the washing machine) fic from last summer. this, along with two other fics, are the big projects that i have been working on for months, so i am happy to release the first chapter of this one! i wasn't planning on publishing this now but i saw that it would be deleted today so i thought, why the hell not?
> 
> this fic is for lorrie.

In the haze of suburban monotony, remembering if it is a Tuesday or a Thursday can be of some difficulty. The only variance in the weeks as they crawl by is whether it is her back that is sore or if it is her feet that are in pain. Often times the aches occupy all, and Katya will chalk it up to being a Monday. Monotony is a calming rhythm. One easy to fall into after years of practice.

Her mind races, dreams too much, to be left to her own devices. Or so her husband says.

If she needs to get free, she can leave her daughter with the babysitter and take the Hudson line to the city, watch the Saturday night double feature at the Thalia. Every other time she has gone they’ve played a Marilyn Monroe picture. In the dark of the back row, she can stare slack-jawed at Marilyn’s breasts.

At her legs, if it's _The Seven Year Itch_. Rarely is she alone during a double feature. The times she has been, she has made good use of the solitude.

On nights when there is an outstanding loneliness bearing down upon her, in an auditorium of people, she’ll touch herself quietly through her dress and buy new stockings after the show lets out. The same applies when the double feature includes one of Jayne Mansfield's filmography, or that Anita Ekberg film, _La Dolce Vita_. So on and so forth. She picks the popcorn kernels out of her teeth when she gets home.

She doesn’t hate the suburbs, as she doesn’t hate being a housewife. Nor the duties that come with the position, and she pours herself into them: into the washing, the sweeping, the vacuuming. It is more out of necessity than passion, her hard work. Katya has realized such is the common thread of the last few years of her life. She has all this empty time and all those heavy thoughts.

If she scrubs the mahogany floors until her knees blister, until her shirt is soaked through with soap and water, she doesn’t have the energy to dwell on what is missing from her life. What has been missing, since her pregnancy and moving up to Ossining with a man she never loved and never will.

Putting her daughter Natasha, or Natalie as her husband and legal doctrines insist, to bed marks her final responsibility of each day. Katya, or Katherine, subject to the same rules as above, is in bed for the night as well, with her husband. The floors didn’t need scrubbing today. She isn’t in the mood for sleep.

“Why don’t you fuck me anymore?” She asks him. The low thrum of the ceiling fan above them fills the silence between her question and his response.

“Katie," He says her name, her _American_ name, in a reprimanding voice. She hates it. "I don’t have time for this.”

She rolls her eyes. Katya is on her husband’s lap, grinding down on him, sliding her bare thighs back and forth over his cotton pajama pants. Katya doesn’t touch him beyond that, her fingers pull on her nightgown and her lips press onto her own shoulder. There is nothing on his end. Nothing hard, nothing hot. Nothing soft and wet, either. She sighs.

Katya is damned by the paradox of wanting him all over her and wanting him not to breathe in the same room as her. He wasn’t good at sex when they were active. She’d imagine his pretty older sister or some fumbling, endearing virgin college girl was below her. Katya would climax by her own hand before he could acquaint himself too well with her body.

The straps of her nightgown slip down both her shoulders, one after the other, as she moves above him. Her pace quickens as she pushes herself up and down harder, thinking it a fine method of persuasion. He closes his eyes and her hopes dwindle into oblivion. It’s not out of pleasure, he looks even sleepier than before. She glares at him.

Katya grits her teeth, holding back the urge to curse him in her native tongue. She refrains from slapping him across the face and yanks hard on the quilt instead. Her husband presses his knuckles, white with the tightness of his fists, into her shoulders—reminiscent of shooing a dog away. His touch makes her skin crawl and she wants to wash herself with soap. Katya recoils and draws her leg back and falls onto her side of the bed.

He’s not paying attention. Katya doubts he would say anything if he was, for fear of sparking another argument ending with him sleeping on the couch. “I have to get up at six. You have to get up even earlier to wake Natalie and make breakfast.”

He is just saying words at her. Katya half-listens to him talking, he goes on about time-management, responsibilities, and she rolls her eyes again. She could finish his sentences the same as he does. He’s so predictable.

“Answer my question. Why don’t you?” She pulls up the bed sheets around her and her voice loses the usual cold, harsh edge when speaking to him. “Is there something wrong with me?”

He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Did you ever even like it?”

Katya doesn’t answer. He clicks off the lamp on his bedside’s nightstand, and they go to sleep.

 

 

She is the first to awake, beats out even the birds. Katya hears their chirps crescendo every morning as she drags her hand down the hallway wall to the powder room, then down the stair handrail in a sleepy, if not freshly painted, amble. While the darkness outside lingers, leftover from the night, she lights the candles scattered around her house.

Sometimes she lights the day’s first cigarette with one of the burning wicks. This morning, for instance.

Her daughter learned early on not to play with the candles, to Katya’s begrudging appreciation. She kisses the scar on Natasha’s tiny pinky finger every time she happens upon it. Now four years old, two years younger when that happened, Natasha likely has no recollection of the incident. Katya apologizes quietly to her, regardless.

Katya forgets she had fallen asleep crying, her sniffles drowned out by her husband’s snores, courtesy of breakfast sangrias. She is enjoying her third glass when she hears the soft padding of her daughter’s shoes on the kitchen tile. Katya cooed Natasha awake ten minutes ago, but let her stay in bed, for a little while, before she would have to get into her school clothes.

Natasha gingerly pulls out a chair to crawl onto. Katya’s eyes are warm, looking on in proud, if slightly intoxicated, awe. Her daughter yawns and resembles Katya’s husband for a moment. Katya blinks. Natasha has Katya’s messy blonde hair, she has Katya’s everything. A yawn is just a yawn, she tells herself. Natasha rubs the sleep from her eyes with tiny fists.

Katya lets the last crêpe sizzle in the skillet for a minute and folds her arms. “Good morning, rybka.”

“Morning, mamochka,” Natasha’s accent is thinner than hers, even when Katya lets it loose. She wants Natasha’s to flourish, wants her daughter to be unabashed, braver than her mother, how Katya used to be in Greenwich.

She laughs to herself. Maybe not exactly how she used to be in Greenwich. “What did you dream about last night, Natasha?”

“Minnie Mouse,” Natasha mumbles. She starts to play with the silverware on her placemat, makes her fork and spoon dance the tango.

Katya smiles. She steps away from the stove and closer to Natasha's place at the table. “Again?”

“She was a spaceman this time. She fell in love with the moon,” Natasha stops playing and looks at Katya. “Her rocket-ship kept blowing up and chugging smoke. She couldn’t go.”

Katya’s smile falters. She looks out the open window in reflex, to the brightness of the pale blue sky. The morning sun has risen and the last of February’s frost disappeared, taken over by March’s tempestuous hand. It’s the first day of the month. Katya longs to bask in warmth. The weatherman on the radio, his voice hysterical and confused, promised an unprecedented early spring awakening.

She quickly changed the station to one oozing out a jazzy Eartha Kitt tune, as the man began ranting about the weather being God’s act of kindness for what happened exactly 100 days ago. Thinking about it hurts her heart, and she’s a Russian socialist. She slings back her sangria and considers making another. “I’m sure Minnie will reach the moon when you to go bed tonight. If she hasn’t already.”

Natasha grins and restarts the tango. Her youthful impatience travels down to her feet, saddle shoes tapping nonstop on the wooden beam under her chair. Katya’s attention returns to the sizzling crêpe. The last one is always the best, and she saves it for Natasha.

She drops raspberries, strawberries, and blueberries that were chilling to the side in the middle of three different crêpes — for herself, her husband, and Natasha. Over the fruit, she sprinkles confectionary sugar, slides her fingers between her lips to suck them clean, wipes them dry on her apron, then drizzles chocolate syrup over the crêpes with a spoon. Her mouth waters as she arranges them in a pretty display on plates.

Natasha will love breakfast, like always, and her husband might too if he’s capable of the feeling. The door to her bedroom opens, and a high-pitched creak sound echoes throughout the house. _And he shall appear_ , Katya thinks. There is a hard shuffling of dress shoes upstairs, then down them.

She throws back her head and sighs. The morning fun is over. He will sit down in the chair furthest from Natasha and not laugh at her antics, read the paper in stone silence, aside from his occasional grunts as he eats.

Katya’s vision is blurring, watching her husband enter the kitchen. His features appear kinder than usual in her stupor. His grey suit not so hard-edged, his hair soft, the stiff pomade undetectable. Stomaching him is easier. She waltzes over to the dinner table, his coffee mug in hand. He sits down where she predicted, opens the newspaper in his crisp manner, and the illusion falls apart.

She takes a sip of his coffee and she is inclined to spit in it. Katya won’t, but it is not an admittance of defeat. He doesn’t like kissing her, leaving a lipstick stain on the rim of his mug is the next best thing. Katya places it in his open hand, bright grin meeting his grimace. She kicks her leg back when she spins around and walks back to the counter, returns with everyone’s plates.

“Eat up, rybka. Show-and-tell will take a lot of energy,” Katya says. She sets breakfast down for her daughter and then her husband. Katya musses Natasha’s hair and her daughter looks up expectantly, eyeing the can of Reddi-Whip wedged under Katya’s armpit. They both laugh. Katya begins spraying a never-ending mountain of whipped cream on top of the crêpe and their laughter grows.

The whipped cream threatens to topple onto the placemat, if it did, Katya would clean it up, but it doesn't get the chance.

The newspaper rustles. “That’s enough.”

Katya’s laugh dies in her throat. She grips the back of Natasha’s chair and stares daggers through a headline regarding Johnson’s first 100 days in office. No response. Katya huffs, sits down in the chair next to Natasha. The family eats in silence.

 

 

She is making lunch for herself at half past noon. Her husband stopped coming home for lunch in the second year of their marriage. Natasha departed with hers in a metal pail this morning (the plastic handle clutched tightly in one small hand, in order blow Katya a kiss and wave goodbye with the other) on the school bus shortly after Katya’s husband drove off to make the train.

It is a hot day outside, absolutely boiling for March. A warm front drifted over the entire state of New York in a manner of hours and Katya reconsiders her dismissal of the weatherman from earlier. She is reaping the benefits of her neighbors' woe: surely as a response to the sudden heat, the mother next door has turned her pool into a second home.

In the summers since the Kellys moved here, Katya’s watched her next-door-neighbor, Mrs. Something-or-Other (she can’t recall as drunk as she is) scooping out leaves every other day before taking a dip. Katya would touch herself in the cool of her air-conditioned living room until she’d come to the movements of the woman’s big breasts. She would have a different red wine each time.

Katya popped open a ’58 Sauvignon blanc, today. Feels more appropriate for the spring.

She deserves it, white wine and an orgasm. Her back and feet ache, like always, and she’s twisting an ankle around in languid motions, balancing on one leg. Katya can’t wait to see if her neighbor is wearing that scandalous little two-piece again, the one her husband must’ve bought for her the previous summer. She made good use of it last July and Katya made good use of her own fingers.

Katya whines. She’s working herself up thinking about it and she looks away from her simmering tomatoes to see if her neighbor is outside. She catches sight of Mrs. Something oiling herself up and Katya bounces in place, desperate for a release.

The doorbell rings and Katya freezes. It takes her a moment, her heart suddenly racing, to realize she has not been caught somehow. She mutters and turns off the stove, moves the pan onto a ceramic cooling plate. Katya wipes her sticky hands on the apron tied tight around her waist, then unties it, sets it neatly onto the kitchen island on her way to her front door.

She picks up a pair of heels set strategically by the door for when surprise visitors show. There is dust settling on the insides and she curses, blows what she can of the dust out. Katya edges the door open as she slides her shoes on. Any quick movements has her head spinning and her feet stumbling over themselves. Eventually, the door opens to a woman.

She’s pink and bright, or just wearing bright pink, it is hard to distinguish. Katya rises slowly to stand upright and blinks a couple times before she can look at her fully. The woman has eyes that remind her of the chocolate truffles Katya buys herself for Valentines Day, big and round, darker than she can hardly stand. She has the cutest smirk that curls on big lips, the same luscious strawberry pink as her skirt suit.

Katya grips the doorframe then finds that’s an effort, her hand wanting to fall limply down the wood. She replaces it with her shoulder and leans heavily against the frame, crosses her arms. She’s supposed to greet her, ask for a name, charm her by saying she’s never seen her at the big Fourth of July party someone in the neighborhood is stuck with throwing every year. But she can’t push a single syllable out.

“Avon calling,” The woman’s voice reminds Katya of the Marilyn picture she saw last week and she licks the inside of her mouth for any remnants of the Sauvignon. She’s going to finish the bottle today. Maybe open another. She's feeling a dry kind of hot, from her head to her toes, the only relief from the dry heat being between her legs, and it is not really relieving at all. “Hello. Mrs. Kelly, is it?”

Katya is silent but for her beating heart. The saleswoman’s nose wrinkles not in disgust, but in annoyance. Katya’s enthusiasm at eyeing her up surely translates to lack of it for Avon products. Still, the woman relaxes. Katya watches her shoulders drop, her gloved grip on her snow-white briefcase slacken. Whatever uptight front she has been told to have as she goes door to door melted off just like that, and Katya grins.

The woman leans forward and her voice quiets into a sweet murmur. “Or is your mailbox telling me a fib?”

“You’re new,” Katya’s throat is scorched and she clears it. She is hoping her red eyes have faded by now and that the widening of the woman’s eyes is a good sign. A sign of _what_ , Katya can’t muster up the energy to dwell on.

Katya doesn’t ask for much in this life and she receives even less. This woman is the best thing she has seen all week, in all her time in Ossining, and she is begging whatever is out there that she doesn’t scare her off by being a pitiful drunk.

"That I am,” The woman says. She rocks on the balls of her feet and Katya’s eyes drop to them. She’s wearing red patent Mary-Janes and Katya does a double take, not only because of the surprising choice of shoes but as well as the realization of her natural above average height, nothing added to it by heels. Katya’s eyes travel up her languidly to settle into the curls pouring out from under the woman’s pillbox hat.

“A real-life Avon Lady,” Katya says. She has regained some of her senses but still shakes her head in disbelief. She strokes her own bicep without thought. “I've never met one before. Are you all so pretty?”

“Maybe,” She says, her tone teasing. She cocks a shoulder and leans her cheek against it. The fat of her face squishes and Katya wants it between her fingers, under her lips. The woman pops her head off her shoulder and her hair chases after her, landing on the front of her double-breasted jacket. Katya withholds her hands from brushing her blonde locks off for her. Everything about her looks so soft. It makes the dark, stand-out patterns and fabrics of Katya’s own clothes feel too harsh. “I could be standard. I could be above it. Who knows?”

“Above standard. I’m sure of it,“ Katya is quick to respond, slurring some. The woman’s lingering smirk stretches into a smile. She shows the vision in full to her briefcase and Katya appreciates the mercy being taken on her.

Katya’s nails dig into her arms before she uncrosses them and she removes herself from the doorframe. She leans to the side to look past the woman, at the blurry splotches of hissing air rising out of the blacktop.

“Won’t you come in? It’s a hot one today,” Katya steps aside and gestures into her house. The woman nods graciously, the hat balanced on her head not daring to fall off. She has to squeeze past Katya even with the space given to her, her wide hip brushes against Katya’s front and Katya's bony knees give a little.

She stays behind, feet rooted to the floor as the woman roams the foyer, eyeing the decor that is a clunky blend of 19th century Russia and 20th century New York. Katya is eyeing the saleswoman’s ass in her tight pencil skirt and slams the door behind her, unable to think or to operate gracefully. The woman jumps, squeals a small _"Oh!"_ , and Katya wants to slam the door shut about ten more times in a row.

She powers forward, sending a dizzying rush of blood to her head that has her holding in a wince. Katya sets her hand against the small of the woman’s back and leads her towards the parlor. “Sorry about that. This way.”

 

 

The woman is setting everything up on a low table and she’s bent over in a way that must be taxing on her spine to spread it all out. Her name is Trixie. It is a small gift, courtesy of smaller talk shared between them while Katya had been fumbling with the knobs on a nearby wardrobe, staring over her shoulder as Trixie laid out a small white lace tablecloth over the redwood table.

Katya’s eyes have since slipped closed, allowing her to dream about spreading Trixie over the table, hiking up her skirt to learn if she tastes as sweet as she sounds, looks as pink as she dresses.

"Mrs. Kelly?” Katya’s eyes pop open to see Trixie sitting on her loveseat, her hat set neatly among the various bottles and trinkets on display. Her hair is puffy, likely due to the heat, but it looks as though she attempted to tame it. Her gloves remain on, hands interlocked tightly in her lap as she sidesaddles the cushions. “I’m ready for you.”

Katya picks up her wine glass, having brought it into the parlor from the kitchen, and runs a shaky hand through her hair. She walks on shakier legs to sit beside her. Trixie clears her throat and her fingers dance in the air across the display, a silent question of what she wants to hear about first. Katya shrugs.

At Trixie's insistence on selecting something, anything, Katya peels her knuckles from the hem of her dress and nearly knocks over a perfume bottle. Trixie holds in a laugh but Katya can hear it in her burning ears. Katya taps the top the bottle cap. "That one."

“Good choice. Here we have Celestial Breeze. It is a delightful, _nightful_ summery scent, and though it is somewhat ahead of the season," Trixie hesitates, voice lowering at the end of her sentence as if breaking off from her script. Her eyes dig deep into Katya's, settling thick roots into her mind with every fluttering blink. "Preparation is an alluring attribute for every woman."

Trixie says more as she holds bottles, trinkets, hairbrushes, and jewelry. Katya catches but bits and pieces of her presentation as the drunkenness begins to sink in fully, Trixie's _everything_ lulling her into serenity. The saleswoman alternates between the other products and the perfumes, spritzing up Katya's arm with different scents everytime that she nods dumbly.

She spritzes her neck once they run out of space. Katya wobbles back in forth in her seat, listening to the radio in the kitchen playing the same kind of jazz from this morning. With her eyes closed, she feels like she's dancing.

“Tell me how it smells, Trixie.”

Trixie leans in and Katya’s throat dries out at the sensation of her angel-soft hair tickling her chin. Trixie’s nose skims across her blushing skin and Katya thinks, in a haze, that her lips brush over her neck. Her heartbeat must be thrumming against Trixie's nostrils. Katya feels an exhale and hum against her, and Trixie leans back and smiles. “Wonderful, Mrs. Kelly. Suits you quite nicely.”

Katya takes a much-needed sip of her wine. One of Trixie's legs rubs against the other for a moment and Katya's thigh jerks in response. She sets down her glass with a heavy hand.

Trixie wiggles on the couch, scooting in closer, but not nearly close enough. She spins one of Katya's curls around a gloved finger. “This hair is magical. I’m supposed to offer the anti-tangle spray we carry to a woman with even a single curl, but this is divine."

She lets go and runs her hand through Katya's hair, playing with it, twisting and tugging so her curls bounce. Katya breathes as evenly as she can while Trixie goes on, cooing out tiny sounds of wonder. She even giggles when Katya gasps at a surprisingly hard pull.

Trixie doesn't remove her hand, only restarts her curious exploration. The silk of her gloves is cool against Katya's hot scalp, the occasional, accidental stroke of her jaw, her neck. Katya wants to suck her fingers into her mouth, feel the cool of silk against her tongue, against her teeth.

Katya lets out a nervous laugh, high-pitched and cutting too short to be genuine. “You’re breaking the rules, then.”

“I’m a naughty girl,” Trixie's eyes flick from Katya’s hair to her eyes. Katya's bug, she's spinning the foot of her wine glass in circles and almost spills her drink over the brim. Trixie's hand catches in her hair and she laughs as she detangles herself from it gracefully, patting Katya's hair one last time before pulling away. “But don’t tell on me!”

“I won’t," Katya says, weakly. Trixie's plea sounds like an after-thought and Katya’s head is swimming, leaning to and fro without Trixie's hand to steady it. Her eyes dip down to the rise and fall of Trixie's ample breasts. She realizes then that she's removed her light jacket, that she's wearing a pink blouse. It looks so soft, and it is so tight on her.

Her clothing leaves little to the imagination, but Katya’s runs wild regardless, though she can process little higher vocabulary than the words lick, suck, pinch, and squeeze. She wants so badly.

“Mrs. Kelly," Trixie strokes her hidden collarbone back and forth before her hand comes to curl over her exposed knee. Katya isn't sure if Trixie squeezing her kneecap or if her mind is playing tricks on her, but she doesn't want to find out. The sight in front of her is twisting up her stomach in the best way. "Do you get lost in that head of yours often?”

“Yes. Yes I do," Katya squirms, keeping herself from lunging onto Trixie, settling into her lap, or pulling her onto her own. She doesn't care either way in her present state. "Sorry."

“Don’t apologize. Dreamy people are," Trixie pauses. Her eyes drop down to Katya’s parting mouth and her tongue peeks out to lick her own. "Well. I think they're just swell."

Katya's chest caves in on itself with the deepness of her inhale. Trixie pulls out a handkerchief from the pocket of her jacket laid over the armrest of the couch, and she begins patting at the beads of sweat on her skin. Katya doesn't know how she didn't notice them before, given how hard she's been staring at her.

She tilts her head towards the display on the table. The trinkets are all grand, ornate silvers and golds, pretty like her mother would like, and the perfumes smell wonderful, but none of it appeals to her in particular. “I’ll take it all, Trixie."

Trixie smiles small, reserved. She stops blotting her forehead, brings the handkerchief down to her lap.

“Are you sure?” She leans in, raises an eyebrow as she says it coyly like she has heard this so many times before. She could sell a glass of water to a drowning man and she knows it. Katya’s knees twitch. Trixie adjusts her skirt. "Well. If that's what you want. Would you like it packed up for you? Set aside?"

"I don't care," Katya shakes her head slowly back and forth. She's wringing the couch cushion beside her thigh and starts to press forward. Trixie does as well, at first, but she rises quickly to stand. Katya nearly falls over on the loveseat, she clutches onto the cushions to keep from slumping over completely.

She follows Trixie's movements as she walks away from her and around the table. Trixie bends over it, her curls hiding her face from Katya. She takes her time undoing her set-up work, moving without sound.

Katya squeezes her eyes shut and sighs. She sits up, stands. She forgot how her feet still ache. "I have lunch waiting in the kitchen. Would you like some tea?"

"Tea would be nice," Trixie speaks too politely now, sending Katya's stomach into a fall. Trixie doesn't look up from the table. "Thank you."

 

 

“You said you moved in last week?" Katya sets down two teacups on saucers, offers Trixie sugar cubes from a tin, to which she declines with a shake of her hand. Katya drops two onto the table and picks them up, drops them hastily into her own cup.

She had attempted to sober up by drinking a glass of water in the kitchen as she listened to Trixie in the parlor humming along to the song on the radio. Katya switched it off with a huff.

"Last Wednesday, yes," Trixie stirs her spoon in her cup relentlessly, to the point that it must be getting cold with her rotations. Her white gloves are so pristine. Katya's jealous, but more-so she wonders about the skin hidden underneath them. She could spread lotion on her hands, if her skin was bitten by the harsh winter, kiss them better. If they resemble the rest of her, soft and smooth, Katya could kiss them until they'd need lotion.

"I’m sorry. I would’ve come over with a pie, or a fruit basket, but I haven’t seen any move-in trucks. I didn't,” Katya worries her lip, sits back and stews in confusion. She breathes in and out, tries to be more careful, more concise with her speaking. When she's drunk she loses the breezy, transatlantic cadence that she has worked hard to cultivate over the years. "I didn't know we had an empty house on this street."

“Oh, that's fine, Mrs. Kelly," Trixie sounds even breathier speaking in an almost whisper, her head hanging down as her eyes follow the endless movements of her spoon.

Katya regrets drinking now like she does in the mornings wrought with hang-overs. Trixie said not a word of the smell on her breath as she masked the strong scent with all the perfumes. Still, she doesn't want to draw any more attention to it by pulling her in close, asking what's wrong.

"It’s only me that’s new," Trixie says, after a sigh. She sounds strangely sad, vulnerable. Katya feel like she shouldn't have heard her.

“You don’t mean your husband’s been living alone?" Katya asks. She sips her tea and it burns her tongue. She winces, rests her cup in her lap.

Trixie hasn't taken a single drink from hers. She's looking at the paintings on the wall, Katya's abstract handiwork from her years in her Greenwich circle. There is no real rhyme or reason to any of the paintings. Katya hates them for the memories of who she used to be, but her husband hates the paintings even more, so she keeps them up.

Katya continues, with Trixie distracted. "I don’t recall a house with just a man here, either.“

“No, no. I’m not married," Trixie sets her cup down onto its saucer, places it on the table where she's cleared space, packed up all of the Avon products into a pretty little box for Katya. She eyes Katya from the side then leans all the way back against the couch, her thighs spreading some with the relaxed position.

Katya's reminded of being in her own home, in what should be where she is most comfortable, and lounges as well. She feels a bit drowsy, but the top of the couch is wood lined, an old heirloom from her father's side. She's only ever fallen asleep on it when she's been blackout drunk. She has no intention of drinking enough to forget today's events.

Trixie fingers the tips of her gloves idly and Katya pulls her blouse sleeves further down to hide her goosebumps. Trixie clears her throat. "I moved into my sister’s house down the street.”

At Trixie’s age, and she appears to be in her mid-twenties, being unmarried is unheard of. Her beauty makes it unbelievable, allows only a select few explanations. Katya’s brain is on fire as she considers them and she swallows down a burning gulp of her tea.

Katya is reminded of nights spent swallowing down whiskey and she sours, coughs into her shoulder. “Who is your sister”?

“Farrah Mat- Sorry. Farrah Pryce," Trixie says. She seems unbothered by Katya's antics and Katya doesn't know if that's good or bad. In the moment, she is thankful Trixie's attention seems elsewhere. "In the white Victorian down the lane. Well, it’s white at the present. She and I will be repainting it pink soon.”

"Last Wednesday," Katya repeats, her voice distant. She has little doubts about why she has yet to see Trixie until now. The taste of wine still on her tongue reminds her in case she could have forgotten. Katya stares down into her tea, hot steam from it drifting up and tickling her lips.

"I started my rounds for the season that Friday," Trixie sounds merry again like a pleasant has entered her mind. Katya sits up in response, watches on gratefully as Trixie's face brightens once more. "I thought of dropping by before today, but I didn't want to be a bother. I'm surprised to find you alone today, actually."

Katya stares blankly at her, blinking. She sets her cup and saucer on the table. "What do you mean?"

"The music," Trixie smiles as if she is telling a joke between old friends. Katya swallows, afraid of what she's thinking. What she could be figuring out. "Music is always playing so loudly from your house. At odd hours, too. I assume you're a busy hostess. Dinner parties and the like.

She hasn't hosted a dinner party in ages. She hasn't been invited to one in ages, either. Cook-outs are as far as the bone is thrown to her in the neighborhood. She is the best cook on the street but it isn't enough for these people.

Trixie bites her lip and inclines her head. Katya worries Trixie can see this all on her face. "Though I've only ever seen one car parked by your house, sometimes two. I've been wondering about you for some time. But I didn't want to intrude, especially to sell these little products."

"You wouldn't have been intruding," Katya says. She sets her hand down on Trixie's knee. She shakes her head with a slow back and forth purpose. "Not at all. You could... You could stay for lunch today. Or come back for dinner. My husband never makes it home in time. I have an empty place setting on the table.”

“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Kelly, but I must be going," Trixie stands up off the couch but doesn't step away. Katya takes a moment before she rises up as well. "You bought all of my products! I’ll need to count cash and report to the office.”

“I hope I see you again before the next season," Katya says, weary. She wants to take a nap as soon as Trixie is gone. Rub herself to sleep. Trixie smiles as she puts on her jacket and Katya walks her to the front door, hand on her lower back again.

"I'll make sure you do," Trixie promises. She steps out of the house with a goodbye and Katya isn't sure if the wink thrown over Trixie's shoulder did happen or if it is the alcohol and the heat playing tricks on her. She watches Trixie walk down the front yard's path and onto the sidewalk with a bounce in her step. The neighbor's manicured hedges shield her from Katya's view as she walks on.

Katya shuts the door with a sigh and goes back into her kitchen, pours another glass of wine and turns the radio back on. She can hear a splash from outside. She has no interest in her neighbor's pool fun. Katya spends the rest of the afternoon thinking of explanations for why she spent her husband's money on beauty products she will never use.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is a nice little baby chapter. it's been a while. hope everyone's summer has been going smoothly.

The early arrival of springtime coinciding with the arrival of the Avon lady does not go unheeded. In fact, thoughts of her haunt the better parts of Katya's days. The woman has unknowingly set in motion an irreversible change to Katya's routine.

She had to change what theater she frequents for her afternoon getaways, no longer able to make it through a Marilyn Monroe feature.  _Dr. Strangelove_  and films in a similar vein have taken over; she watches them inside a smaller cinema of art deco design that fills up with men who cheer every time there is an explosion or when someone dies a horrible death.

Home is where it hits hardest, though. Her wrists ache sooner when she scrubs the kitchen tiles, imagining Trixie in a similar position in her house. Her knees give out when she cooks, her thoughts drifting off to images of Trixie sitting at her dinner table, groaning at the taste of whatever Katya's made for her to eat, her plump cheeks colored pink after a glass or two of wine.

The fantasies both guide her through the droll of the day-to-day and send her to bed more exhausted and sick with frustration than ever before. Regardless, time persists in moving slowly. Katya again accepts this as being a design of suburban life for the umpteenth time since she's settled down here.

Today is no different. She’s already tired as she gets the mail while in her car and has her second cigarette of the day dangling from her mouth a half hour after the sun has risen. Katya hopes her new neighbor is warm and comfortable in bed, pretty eyelids closed to the bright blue light of the morning.

During the first week that passed after they met, Katya caught glimpses of Trixie going door to door, always inducing the same shock that ran hot through her when she'd ogle starlets on the big screen. But she hasn’t seen her since.

She tosses the pile of mail into the empty passenger seat. Natasha sits behind her, buckled up in the backseat, playing with her favorite teddy bear. The car radio is on but the latest news on the Johnson administration is background noise.

Katya drives on down the neighborhood road lazily, lost in thought. The lawns are empty of life at this early hour, everyone at work or asleep.

With no cars passing by, she lets her eyes roam the expanse of this manicured world; the lush green of it all, the big maple trees and smaller beech trees that surround everything, the impossible variety of flowers blooming anew in soft pinks and purples in their beds of dirt, the close-cropped shrubs lining the front of every house.

She stops the car in the middle of the road when she arrives at the white Victorian house down the lane. Trixie is out front, painting furniture by herself. She is facing her house and bends down, again and again, to dip her paintbrush into a bucket on a tarp spread over the grass.

Katya's hand fumbles to turn the radio off and her foot weighs a ton on the breaks. Trixie turns around but doesn't see her. The sun reflects off her black cat-eye sunglasses and she wipes her glistening brow with a handkerchief. Trixie is sweating through her red and white striped sleeveless shirt, the thin material clinging to her like another layer of skin.

Her hair is frizzing in the morning heat and her skin is shimmering with sweat. Her navy shorts with six shining buttons on the front are tight on her hips, her thighs. The shorts have a cinched waistline, showing off how little her waist is. She looks like a sailor girl; something off the cover of those smutty pulp novels.

Trixie bends down again, but drops the paintbrush into the bucket and thrusts her hand into a cooler popped open on the ground. She plucks out a shining, silver can that is dripping with water. She pops the top with a bottle opener she pulls from her shorts pocket and begins to knock the drink back, throat bobbing.

She stops after she's downed maybe a third of the drink and brings the can up to rest on her forehead. She starts shimmying to whatever is playing on the blood red portable radio she has out beside the cooler, some upbeat jangly song that sounds straight out of California.

Katya checks her watch to confirm the time. She's had stronger drinks at an earlier hour and supposes she shouldn't expect anyone to sip on wine while out working in the sunshine, but she wouldn't expect anything less from what she last saw of Trixie, if at all. Seeing her act in a less than refined manner by guzzling beer at six thirty has Katya at a loss for words.

“You should help her mamochka," Natasha says, without warning. Katya's sweaty palm smacks the car horn in surprise and Trixie's head snaps to the car. She opens up her mouth to produce a sound that is inaudible to Katya over the blood pumping in her ears. She waves at her with a smile and sets down her drink on the grass, walks over to the car with a stumble in her amble, and she leans into the open window.

“Hey neighbor,” Trixie drawls. She is out of breath and her voice is slow, the heat and however many cans she has had to drink conspiring together to turn her into a disheveled version of the prim woman Katya encountered last week. Her baby-blonde curls are sticking to her forehead, her cheeks. Katya can smell the sweat and paint on her.

“Hello," Katya says, shifting in her seat. Trixie's tongue pokes out between her teeth. "I almost didn't recognize you without the briefcase."

“Hi, Mrs...” Natasha says. She's hugging her teddy bear, hiding behind it, the way she hides behind Katya everytime she meets somebody new.

"I’m not married, pump-kin! It’s just _Misssss_ ," Trixie slurs, smiling warmly. Katya taps her foot on the gas at being reminded of her unmarriedness and the car lurches forward. Trixie stumbles backwards with a yelp, then she begins to laugh. Katya hits the breaks and puts the car in park with a shaking hand. Trixie leans in even further through the window. Her breath smells like beer and maple syrup. 

“Sorry," Katya mutters. Her eyes glide over the splotches of pink paint all over Trixie's skin. Katya wants to wipe her down with a washcloth. “This is my daughter, Natasha. Natasha, this is our new neighbor, Miss Trixie Mattel.”

“Hiya, Nat,” Trixie waves at Natasha. Katya stares at her fingers, their long length, her cropped fingernails, the lack of an engagement ring and wedding band. Trixie looks back over at Katya, eyes screwing into hers. “Aw. She has your eyes.”

Katya shudders out a nervous laugh and Trixie sets her arms on the car window pane, props her chin up on her fist.

“Where are you off to?” She asks, cutely, innocently, enough to keep Katya on edge. Her eyes are glazed over and she bats her eyelashes.

“Hardware store," Katya manages to say. Trixie nods. The action appears encouraging at first, but Katya is quick to realize she is being haughty. "I need to replace some light bulbs. And then to the supermarket, after that. I’m making a roast tonight."

“You’re such busy little bee,” Trixie murmurs. She shifts her weight on her feet and Katya smiles weakly, glancing at her backside in the side mirror. “I’m sure that’ll be tasty, Katya. I heard you’re the best cook on the block."

“Where’d you hear—?" Katya starts.

“Miss Trixie?" Natasha cuts her off. Katya appreciates it, her voice having been worn down to a dry croak. Trixie's attention moves from her to her daughter and Katya watches her face shift into softness. Katya wants to pinch her chubby cheeks. "Your chairs are pretty where they are pink.”

“Thank you, sweetie!" Trixie smiles big and Katya watches Natasha in the rearview mirror. She is giddy in the backseat, the same way she gets when she is watching _Cinderella_. "It will all be pink soon enough. The house, too!"

“You know, you could come over later,” Katya interjects, not bothering to link her words to anything they have said. Trixie gives her a look Katya decides to dwell on later, but she decides to add on to her offer. “For the roast.”

“Oh, I’d just _love_ to," Trixie's lips push into a pout and Katya's head presses back against the headrest, her shoulders sink and she slumps down in her seat. "But I’ll be painting all day. I just want to take a cold shower after I finish. Maybe soak in a nice hot bath, after that.”

Katya holds in a whine. Trixie smiles again and drums her fingers on the car window pane.

“Have a safe trip," She says. Trixie turns around and Katya stares at her ass as she walks away. She returns to her task of painting, appearing to have forgotten completely about Katya. It is quiet in the car. She doesn't remember turning off the radio and she rolls her eyes at herself, at being so consumed by Trixie.

“Why didn’t you ask to help her?” Natasha says, ending the silence. Katya registers the snapping of the sprinklers in the neighborhood's lawns, the birds chirping in the trees. She drops her head onto the steering wheel lightly, careful not to honk the horn again.

Katya sighs. “I forgot.”

 

 

“Light, please," Katya says.

Natasha sits like an egg in a basket, still and silent, in the seat of the shopping cart Katya is pushing around the supermarket. The child is a daydreamer. She gets it from her mother. Katya repeats herself, gentle, and watches the girl's glossy eyes blink into clarity. She holds Katya’s kiss-lock pocketbook open in her lap and digs around for Katya’s lighter as requested.

The girl had asked to hold the pocketbook, as she likes its ornate embroidery and the rich colors. She has trouble igniting the flame but Katya is ever-patient, quietly understanding, cigarette firm between her lips. When Natasha does get it to ignite, she sticks her small arm out and the flame tickles the end of the cigarette until it catches. It reminds Katya of lighting her father’s pipe for him when she was a child.

“Perfect. Thank you, darling,” Katya says. She smokes languidly as she pushes the cart around, selecting fruits and vegetables, loaves of bread, milk, and eggs.

They move down the grocery list by Katya saying the English word for the item she picks up and Natasha telling her its Russian equivalent. She praises her daughter's correct punctuation and waits with encouraging nods if she messes up. She's waiting for the girl's next response, but Natasha becomes distracted, gazing at something behind Katya's shoulder.

It is a nutcracker on a shelf by itself, leftover and somehow forgotten from last Christmas. Katya looks between the girl and the toy, but her daughter isn’t saying anything.

“Tell me when you want something, rybka," Katya sighs and musses her hair. She picks the toy up, moves his wooden arm to make him wave at Natasha until she laughs. Katya puts the toy in the cart, arranges it so that it rests against Natasha's teddy bear. Katya takes her heels off and hands them to Natasha, trades them for her purse. “Hold these, will you?”

She speeds up to a light jog as she pushes the cart down the aisle and around it, and then they're flying through the supermarket, zooming past aisles and stands and envious children clinging to disinterested mothers. Natasha's cheering and clinging to Katya's shoes until they bump into another shopping cart.

Katya curses under her breath and asks Natasha if she is alright, checks her head with prodding fingers, but the girl continues giggling, unharmed and uncaring. Katya smiles warmly down at her. After the moment of peace, she looks up and locks eyes with of her neighbors.

“Katherine.” The woman says. Katya’s smile falls apart and she straightens up, curls her fingers tight around the handle of the shopping cart.

“Ginger.” Her voice loses all its natural musicality, snaps back into the faux-transatlantic accent she’s picked up.

Or rather, she has had to force herself into, to avoid being the target of the neighborhood watch. It's funny, she has been an American citizen longer than all her neighbor’s children, but the little tykes are the ones who ask her about her birth certificate from the safety of their ten-speed bicycles when she's out on her lawn.

“Having fun?” The way Ginger says it and guards her three-year-old son against her bosom indicates that Katya shouldn't be. The boy is crying and Natasha frowns, clamps her hands over ears. Katya flicks her eyes down to shoot her a quick wink. Natasha attempts to send one back but she blinks instead. It is enough to calm Katya's heart and warm it, builds her confidence back up.

“Yes,” Katya holds her cigarette loosely between her teeth. It bounces between her lips as she speaks, smearing lipstick over it. “You should try it sometime.”

She backs up the cart and turns it around, doesn’t bother to gauge a reaction. She knows it is one of scandalization from years of experience. It kills her, Natasha having to see this at the supermarket, at the sparse amount of parties and get-togethers that they are invited to, and everywhere they go.

“I don’t like her," Natasha says when they are far enough away, tucked into the safety of the empty canned goods aisle. Katya blows smoke out the side of her mouth.

“Me neither.”

 

 

Katya's back in her neighborhood twenty minutes later and pulls to a stop outside of Trixie’s house. She isn't outside, the cooler is gone, and the tarp is spread over the front porch. The pink chairs are on top of it, drying. Katya puffs out a sad sigh, filling the car with smoke.

"You should ask if she's home," Natasha suggests. Katya draws her eyes up to the rearview mirror to see her daughter smiling and nodding. She's buckled up her teddy bear in the seat beside her and her legs kick in her building excitement. "She could come over!"

It tugs on Katya's heartstrings, the excitement in her daughter's voice at the prospect of someone coming to the house. She's just as lonely as Katya is.

"That'd be nice. I should, shouldn't I?" Katya murmurs, more to herself than to her daughter. She unbuckles her seatbelt and tosses her cigarette out the window. She reaches behind her to pat Natasha's Mary-Jane shoe, squeezes it to make her giggle. "Stay put, Natasha, dear."

Katya shuts the car door behind her and steels herself with a deep breath before she approaches Trixie's house. The door opens not with Trixie behind it, nor her sister Farrah. A woman she's seen at class parties and parent-teacher conferences at Natasha's school stands before her instead.

"Hello," Katya greets wearily, as the woman's eyes are lidded and she smells like a bar. She perishes the thought of smelling herself to compare. "Is Miss Mattel at home?"

"She's out. With her commit- _tee_ ," The woman slurs, waving her glass around in a lazy gesture. She almost spills some of her drink but manages to swing her glass in a countering motion to balance it out. Katya is somewhat mystified by the motions and what she's said doesn't register for a second.

"What committee?" Katya questions innocently. She's more curious than anything, despite the fact that Trixie had said she'd be home all day.

"Something about, uh, college-educated single women. I think she was already involved in it before she came here," The woman sips at her drink and leans towards Katya, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial tone. Katya grips her purse's strap, uneasy at the proximity. The smell of martini raises the hairs on the back of her neck. "You do know why she came here, don't you?"

Katya blinks at her, shaking her head before taking a step back. She's ready to turn around and leave when Farrah pops into view through the open door. Farrah's eyes widen and she hurries to the door, pulls the woman back into the house with a strength that surprises Katya and slams the door shut behind herself. Katya stands dumbly, frozen in place and staring at her.

"Hi, Mrs. Kelly!" She squeaks out. She leans against the door, smiling too widely to be natural.

"Hello, Mrs. Pryce," Katya puts on a smile. Farrah is one of the nicer women populating the neighborhood, if not a little excitable, but she hasn't made a real effort to be welcoming to her and hasn't invited her over for dinner, though their husbands work in neighboring office buildings in the city.

"You— I don't see you around here very much," Farrah sounds distracted, confused, really. She shakes her head and pops off of the door, gestures behind her. "Pardon my friend, she's living in an early happy hour. I hope, oh gosh... I hope she said nothing indecent to you?"

"Nothing at all. I'll be going," Katya takes another step back, embarrassed. She roots around in her purse to pull out another cigarette, her fingers fumbling over what should be an easy action for her. "Could you tell Trixie I asked for her? You have my number?"

"Sure! And yes, I do," Her face scrunches up but her tone softens. She takes a step forward and curls her fingers around Katya's forearm and squeezes. "It's nice, seeing you Katya. Take care."


End file.
